Still Think You Can Save Me?
by MadSmurf
Summary: Arthur wishes he had the power to turn back the clock if only to stop what had already happened. Warning: Non-con, torture, violence and mindfuckery. Arthur/Eames


Disclaimer: None of the characters that you recognise are mine, instead they belong to the wonderful Christopher Nolan.

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><p>When Arthur was a young boy he use to think that one day he would grow up to be Batman because what were the chances of becoming Superman? In his five-year old mind, he believed that Batman was the suitable choice and that superpowers were for the weak minded. Five minutes later, he had changed his mind and from that moment on believed that superheroes were overrated if his big sister was just going to tease him about it. From then on, he kept his fantasies to himself if only to save himself from ridicule.<p>

Now at the ripe age of thirty he wished that he had some type of power if only to rewind the clock. Anything to stop what had already happened. Anything to wipe that blank vacant look in Eames' eyes – the eyes of someone that was so far gone. He wanted to shout and to scream at the forger, to raise some type of action of him but he knew it was no good.

It hadn't been any good for the past – the past…Arthur didn't even know how long it had been, he had lost all sense of time but it felt like years. For all he knew it very well could have been years. He couldn't reach his totem to check, but he knew – deep down – that this was reality and that that dead look in Eames' eyes wasn't some mask. That was what terrified him the most. Eames, he's always been the strong one…

…Now what?

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><p>He was the point man. He was supposed to be the one that made sure that everyone got out safe. Yet, somehow, he had managed to fuck it up. His research had been perfect – the Fischer job a constant reminder that he had sent four people into limbo – of course, Eames had always been quick to remind him that it had been Cobb that had sent them all into limbo and not himself. It did not matter though, he should have realised that Fischer had been trained. Cobb's deception had just been icing on the bittersweet cake. He had cleaned up after everyone, leaving nothing to trace back to anyone on the team. That team being just himself and Eames.<p>

They had joined shortly after the Fischer job (and two jobs in Germany) and had already made a bigger name for themselves. Maybe that had had something to do with it, maybe they were getting to well known and that was what brought people looking. People with lethal grudges, against Eames.

It had only been luck that Arthur had been with Eames – they had been having a celebration dinner of a job well done (three countries and four states away from their original location – he had thought that had been far enough) when the gunfire had started. It had ended with three dead bodies, Eames, and himself running for their lives.

The chase had not lasted long and he was still kicking himself over the mistake. Why did they have to hide in the nearest vacant building? Maybe it had been a small fleeting hope that the thugs after them were not too bright. Yet, he had been wrong on that count and it had landed himself and Eames in the back of a truck – one bullet wound in his left knee and one in Eames' right knee. They had not screamed, not even a whimper and that had sparked a feeling of pride of himself and of Eames. It was – what he had assumed – halfway to their current location when the thugs had decided to shoot Eames' other kneecap out when Eames had decided to give them lip and then his left foot, just because they could. He had sworn in French at them, cursing them and their pitiful existence until they had arrived at the location where they had been for who knows how long. Eames had not been inflicted of any more injuries of the physical kind besides the two bullet wounds. Instead, they had decided to hurt Eames in the only way that could possible cause the forger any real pain.

After all, Arthur had been reminded with a twisted sense of bitterness that pain was in the mind.

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><p>From then on, the thugs had taken Eames and himself under for hours at a time and he had to watch as they did unspeakable things to Eames. They forced him to forge into so many people (women, men and children, it didn't matter to them) until he lost count. Each time Eames did it flawlessly; only losing the mask when the pain became too much.<p>

Each time they went under the thugs always did something different but Arthur could see a slight pattern and that made him sick – he could tell what particular act they were repeating behind the disguise of some new sick twisted kink. It went something like: Forge. Rape. Rise and Repeat. It made him sick.

It also made him even more determined to get them out of here, he would get Eames out if it were the last thing he ever did. Eames didn't deserve what the thugs were doing to him. No one did. It made his blood run cold that he couldn't do anything without some type of weapon – if he had a toothpick these sorry bastards would regret the day they decided to fuck with him and the people he cared about.

It was when they had decided to take things a level deeper and had left him on the first level. That was when he really wished he could have done something. Instead he had been stuck restrained with the projections watching him with suspicious eyes, it hadn't helped that the thugs had left one of their own behind with him just to make sure that he didn't get any ideas about dreaming anything up.

Because he would have – consequences be damned. Eames' sanity was on the line. It was after that day they just left Arthur on the topside while they took Eames into the nightmare. From then on Eames' eyes slowly became blank of all emotion. They had become dead. Whatever they had done down there it had left Eames as an empty shell and that had scared the shit out of him. Eames wasn't suppose to be an empty shell he was supposed to be his constant annoyance but more importantly the man that he woke up to each morning – his lover.

Not the shell of a man that he had become.

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><p>When he was finally able to do something other than sit and watch Eames shrink further away from reality and into his mind, it had resulted in four dead bodies and a rescue team coming in only what felt like seconds late. Satio had merely nodded his head in his direction. Then proceeded to command the small army of men in black to dispose of the bodies, of what was left anyway. He had watched three other men that were dressed in white hover over Eames before lifting the man carefully away from the PASIV and onto a stretcher.<p>

Arthur could remember glaring at anyone that dare go near him or help him as he had made his way to Eames and when reaching the older man grasping the entirely too thin hand rubbing soothing circles into the dirt covered skin. They had stayed this way the entire flight to Paris. Arthur rubbing circles into Eames' hand and Eames' never responding – not even a twitch. That had broken Arthur's heart, torn it to pieces. That was when he knew Eames would never return.

Not completely.


End file.
